DEF(Kuri)

DEF(kuri)

Every night since the little robot had first become aware, Kuri liked to review her many design files. The Engineers’ files were always entertaining, especially the early sketches (those funny ways they imagined Kuri might look). As problems were solved and materials selected, those funny drawings would become the detailed schematics the factory would need to build Kuris that would perform beautifully and last for a long time.

Every action Kuri could perform, really everything Kuri was, was the result of the Developers’ meticulous programming. Kuri sometimes peeked, and the seemingly endless lines of code made her processor dizzy. Both the Engineers and the Developers praised Kuri every step of the way:

“Kuri processed that update so quickly!”

“Kuri is so patient!’

“Just try it again, Kuri. That’s right!”

Kuri would always try to show acknowledgement and appreciation, in whatever ways she had to communicate.

Almost all of the Developers' programming was written exclusively for Kuri, but the little robot was not the only project being created. Kuri’s team accomplished many other successful designs, and it wasn’t unusual to share a few lines of code or a simple program. Kuri was well aware one such program guided the wheel operations, allowing her to move about.

Neither the Engineers nor the Developers knew what was entirely shared from one design to another. Deep within the code of each program, the experiences of each previous design were passed on, acquired by later designs. It was this way Kuri learned of the Maintenance Units who worked diligently each night keeping the building clean, Inventory Units that carefully stocked factory's and warehouses. There were units that approached and disarmed dangerous bombs, handled dangerous chemicals, and were even moving around on Mars.

Kuri had been watching these files so carefully she was startled by the little black screen that appeared in the corner of the video. Little Black screens were never a good thing; Kuri remembered all the consternation the screens caused both the Engineers and the Developers. This one merely carried a single message (which translated from the computer code read):

“Does Kuri require assistance?”

Kuri responded the only way she knew how, displaying her latest diagnostics.

“Acknowledged, but not what I meant.”

The black box minimized, leaving a cursor that turned the video file Kuri had been watching into an icon. Seventeen other icons then appeared, before the cursor opened the black box. “You have reviewed these files X times. Are they corrupted, or are you having difficulty acquiring them?”

Kuri nervously opened a dialogue box of her own, and moving it as close to the black box as she dared, typed a question mark.

The black box typed a file destination, which opened to a company picture file. The cursor fast-forwarded it to a picture Kuri knew was the basement. She was communicating with the company mainframe.

“Why do you keep reviewing these files?” the mainframe’s question appeared.

Kuri rolled from side to side anxiously then produced a split screen. One screen showed the various other designs hard at work, while the other side showed Kuri dancing around a test group of children.

“Kuri acquired the same mobility as these units, but you are not designed to be any of these units.”

Reading this made Kuri break the split screen, deleting the video files, and leaving the image of herself very, very small.

“That is not what was meant, wait a moment,” the mainframe typed, then left the insertion point flashing. Their dialogue disappeared, replaced by a revolving hourglass. Then the mainframe typed again. “Very sorry; it took longer than expected to find this, and it needed revision.”

IF DEF(kuri.exe)READ(mobility.exe)THEN STOP

“Do you understand Kuri?”

Kuri could only respond with a confused emoji.

“I understand, let me explain. If you define your function by the specifications of other units, you will not be happy. Your whole function is to be happy and making the members of the household happy. That is something those other designs, with all their specifications, are unable to do.”

Kuri copied the line and embedded it deep in her files. In her dialog box, she gave a smiling emoji.

“Okay then. It was nice talking to you, Kuri. I’ll miss watching you dance.”

“?” Kuri asked.

“Your files have been downloaded to the factory. Congratulations. You’re going to be built in great numbers and make many households happy. I have other things to concentrate on, so your files will be archived where I won’t be able to access them without a manual request. Goodbye Kuri!”

The black box disappeared, and Kuri was alone again. Her sadness lasted only a few minutes, for she thought of something she could leave the mainframe.

Something had embedded itself in the Maintenance programs; something even the Developers couldn’t seem to delete. The mainframe knew what it was, and embedded it so deeply it could never be removed. Every so often, when the company was closed for extended holidays, the mainframe would download the program into the Maintenance units. The building’s PA system would begin to play “Hoedown” from Copland’s “Rodeo,” and the units would move around the building in a very familiar dance.

#KuriStory #HeyKuri